A few hours later, my second "I" thrashed in a slight chill of a hangover dizziness, but did not show it. It always behaved calmly and slightly sarcastically. And this time, his mumbling about "he's never had such a 'thoughtful' gangster in his life" didn't piss me off too much. Yes, and it would be ridiculous to argue and disagree if all our sexual fun had a clear and strict direction under the control of the first "I" who fell into a sexually creative trance.
In full accordance with the scenario, my most important, largest and slowest gear had the worst of all: it had the main blow. Its cogs, creaking plaintively, jumped out of engagement with the neighboring more efficient and nimble gear, and the unfortunate part of my chronometric organism flew into the beyond, dragging gnashing springs, bushings and pendulums behind it. The other parts of me that survived so far froze in a tetanus of horror, realizing only too well that they had very little left to enjoy the triumphant reality. Although it is not known exactly how much. The stream of time rushed past me. I stood on the shore, indifferent - as I wanted - to this eternal movement. And I also saw from above, from below, from the side, and as if even from within, the ferocious heel of a woman's shoe flying right at me. Sharp, ruthless and inevitable, he cut through the air with the whistle of a high-explosive bomb in order to fall a second time and finally destroy the mechanism born of time, revolution or some other hopelessness for the eternal, endless reproduction of all the same time.
- Piccolo, my always in a hurry, always late, always running and never having time Piccolo! Even if you finally decide to stop and take a breath, it means that something has turned upside down in the world. Or turned. I don't know if it's for the worse or for the better. Upside down or vice versa. But I don't mind.
We don't mind either.
- Who are we?
The question hangs in the air. As if our entire quantity is exhausted by the number "2"! Even if we look into each other's eyes, the silhouette of someone else will always appear on the periphery of the iris. Or third. Like in a Bond movie. James Bond.
In fact, I am not at all lying under a sheet heated by two bodies melting from the atomic heat of pleasure that has just thundered. Against. I stand opposite. In front of the house where they are waiting for me. Or they don't wait. I do not know for sure. But I have to be there today. "Whether the snow is falling, whether the warm rain is pouring" - today I don't care. Time today must leave me alone and carry its muddy waters away from me and from her. From all of us. At least for the time being.
The snow hasn't fallen yet, but it's getting cold to stand just like that, almost not moving at the entrance, basking in the last cigarette. Actually, I don't even know what I'm waiting for. God-Time gave me a leave, and I dispose of it - mediocre. As always. How only I can do it. And a cigarette is just an excuse to drag out time that does not exist now. Absurd. And what did I find in it?
A few steps of a concrete porch broken by snow and rain.
She always wanted to stop time. I have always felt it. But Faustian desires do not inspire me. Why stop time, if it is more correct to break it, to break out of its fetters? And then you can begin to implement obscure, unconscious to her, my woman, desires. I, fortunately, catch her desires better than any radio telescope.
Jump out of the stream of time, first destroying the chronometer, pounding in my chest like the ashes of Klaas. Moreover, her heel slyly got to my watch gears for a long time. After a huge number of unconscious attempts by the hostess, today he succeeded. Contrary to the theory of probability. Because with my permission. So the time has come. Or rather, gone. To the side. Down. Up. I do not know exactly.
Naked, we lie with her, pressed against each other. It's called "just lying down" after the dizziness of hugs, fireworks of kisses and leapfrog of dangerously sweet mutual absorption. I plunge headlong into tenderness, generously spilled in the water meadows of her nature. I do not resist, as before, melting caresses and rustling, like leaves of grass, words of the most intimate nature.
- Don't rush, love. Let's get some more. We just lay down without moving. (I think this is usually her line.)
- Come on, of course. Such bliss to feel the touch of your body ... And I ask you not to take it out of me.
- Of course ... There is nothing better than feeling you from the inside.
Ladder. I do not accept elevators. I don't trust mechanical monsters. I'm coming up. On the twelfth floor. Sluggish, unhurried. Slow and constricted, like an aspiring actor or a new zombie. Who would have thought that right now a volcano of obsession is seething in me. Yes, when I am possessed, then it is impossible to stop me. And now I'm obsessed with her desire. A desire that even she herself has a vague idea of. While her thoughts are completely occupied with the strange behavior of the one who is next to her.
She is pleased. She is surprised. And he doesn't try to hide it. "Usually you start to rush right away. Immediately after a shower - you rush to your clothes like a hermit crab to your shell. All you can do is a couple of clumsy compliments. It's like you're deserting. Mentally you are already in a different place, in other things and with other people. If you think that you offend me, then you are mistaken. You are Piccolo, how can you be offended?! You are more annoyed with yourself: probably I am not good enough for you, if even for a moment you do not time is like heaven to us. What happened to you today? Did you want to change, Piccolo? Oh, something doesn't look like you! Are you sick?"
Oh my Dio, you're right of course! You always feel everything, even if you cannot understand what is happening. You are Felicita. As subtly sensual as I am. Only better and cleaner!
Today I stopped. I don't want to rush. Tired! We will lie side by side, swaying on waves of relaxed euphoria, until the universe turns upside down, until all civilizations turn to dust, until my penis loses the last ladybug of straining blood that can keep it in the warm moisture of the lair of passion between your legs. And let the transparent grace of Botticelli's brush in search of magical tones and shades of colors of eternal spring glide over us...
- Get up and go!
Is she talking to me?! My annoying Felicita?! It’s always like this: the best intentions turn into, at best, useless quirks, and at worst ...
- Time is up.
She is unaware that her own and even the universal heel is not capable of destroying time completely, so that it suddenly ends forever. The heel pushed him away from us. But she can only guess about this. Or feel. Not very clear.
Meanwhile, I am already standing in front of the door to her apartment and fiddling with the key that she gave me six years ago and which she has already forgotten about. To enter or not to enter? For some reason it seems that I am doing something wrong, stupid, almost criminal. "Stupid and ridiculous our world is arranged." And cats scratch the soul, like my fingers her door. You can retreat. I know. And it would be easier, easier. No headaches, throwing doubts and passions in a bamboo grove. Leave not to return. And never do stupid things. And not to be a person who sometimes finds more meaning in a pinch of cold autumn air than in a great variety of moralizing and moralizing all the philosophies of the world. Zarathustra did not say so...
Flashing its steel side, the key bites into the keyhole with a clever insect.
Of course, I can't get dressed. Just pretend that I want to get out from under the sheet and give out someone else's joke, heard somewhere long ago: "Pronto, Smolny is on the wire!", which causes a stream of hysterical grimaces to my beloved. It’s late to dress anyway, and with the calmness of a Roman horseman I watch the crazy pas de deux of my naked Amazon. Getting into the sleeves of a light dressing gown in this state is the same as managing to make a dead loop on the "corn" around the Crystal Gate Bridge. Here it is the terrible image of Medea's despair, here it is the developing hair, here it is the frightening dynamics of senseless movements and disorderly gestures. Dear Masha Kalas, in the depiction of madness, regrettably, you lost in all respects to my little Felicita.
She is still trying to convince me of something, but the doors are already open, and nothing can save anyone, except, perhaps, Dr. Pleischner's ampoule. But we don't have it. So, nothing will return to normal.
As in a bad comedy, I first put my hand on the door frame so that everyone present can enjoy the pale elegance of my fingers frozen in the wind. "Ku-ku, my dears!". And I hear in response, as if nothing had happened, a reciprocal and some kind of concentrated business "cuckoo, cuckoo!" Well, we are waiting for an evening of exciting memories of the serene times of innocence! Of course, I have the audacity to inquire about the possibility of treating an unexpected, but far from a stone guest, before stepping over the threshold.
Guys, I'm still cold. Or what do you think?
There is vodka, of course. I didn't expect anything else. Vodka in the amount of the optimal liter is included in the scenario that we discussed yesterday from all sides with my other self. Or twenty-four. I do not know exactly. My "I" can be anything. And was it yesterday? Or in the fifteenth century? Or maybe we didn't discuss anything at all? What's the difference now...
No, now we will not discuss where, how and why I came here. Do not, in fact, punish your own alter ego for impudent unbridledness, and the deified woman for being immoral. What? Key? Six years have passed - could it have been so easily preserved in my pocket? And why didn't I use it a week ago when I visited her on some urgent and important matter? No, no, this is all empty talk, we will not be distracted by them. Why step on the throat of your own song, especially since vodka is already gurgling in that throat. Pleasant relaxing warmth fills the voids of the viscera and the brain. Let's, brothers, remember better the painting of the Renaissance.
- Felicita, remember, once you told me that Botticelli is your favorite ...
- So what? Yes, Botticelli is my favorite painter. And what follows from this?
- Nothing special. It's just that the lines of his drawings surprisingly coincide with the lines of your body ...
- It's nice to hear, but it's not clear what you're getting at? And why is Andryusha still silent?
- Probably, without me, he was pretty tense and tired, therefore.
- Andryusha, are you sleeping?
Andryukha, as it should be according to the script, mumbles something in response, pretending that the vodka went down the wrong throat. Here is the hypocrite! Or is he really that bad? Or just remembered a witty paradigm about group sex? Does he really hope to slip away and abandon his parallel "I" at a difficult time for the motherland? .. But was the game worth the candle, was it worth going for a million tricks turned into a trillion senseless, defying logic actions. The great Boccaccio did not explain anything on this score, he took the secret with him to the grave. And now I have to explain this difficult question to our most magnificent of all geisha, who does not yet know that she will have a heroic and glorious path of a heavenly houri.
- Solveig, just don't think that we are so vicious and vile. And that in contact with us, you become the same ... But how else to break this vicious and vile stream of time? Tell me if you know. We stopped him today. Not for long. But for what? Is it really just like that, for fun? .. Another moment - and it will grow together again. Like the tentacles of a Hydra. Come on, let's not let him do that. Straightaway. Let's delay his celebration in order to ...
Confused in my own logical constructions, I also choked.
- Now you will say to feel the pulse of your own life? Uncle Fedya - are you a fool? Save the group-sex apologia for stupid wet liquor.
Our Filichita is an extremely smart and quick-witted girl. Extra conversations with her can lead to the jungle of sophistry and rhetoric. And my thoughts are already wandering like a lost crowd of pencil babies under her dressing gown, bumping into wonderful and magical things. If they get lost there, they will stay there forever. The lost need to be saved!
I touch her hand with all the tenderness that an esthetic bootes excited to exhaustion is capable of. I take her wrist and bring it to my lips. I inhale the scent of her skin like the scent of the most exotic flowers. I whisper something like "procrastination is like death, if not today, then when, and in general: all this is only for you, dear, and not for us lustful goat-legged satyrs, once you need a holiday, you were waiting him, don't deny it."
- You are Alyoshenka - a holiday in itself, which is always with me. Ah, if you weren't already so obsessed with sex, you were priceless! (Here follows my sliding kiss on her throbbing throat.) No, I'm quite progressive to understand the beauty of alternative sex. (Restrained wet caress of her ear.) But somehow like this ... decisively and immediately ... without any psychological preparation. (A kiss on the lips, lasting just long enough to feel the return breath.) First, I'm not ready mentally. And secondly, we are running out of time. (My fingers are already juggling the nipples of her graceful breasts.) Only about forty minutes. (She begins to choke.) The mother-in-law ends her shift, and she promised to come in ...
Again the monstrous phantom emerges, rhythmically tapping out seconds, minutes and hours. And yet ... That's another story! The indicated possibility opens the doors of the impossible, behind which there is solid light. The dazzling light of her naked body. Who managed to take off her robe? Alexander? Or are you Valentine? Archibald, turn off the overhead light! The day today, of course, is gloomy and gray, but not to the extent that electricity can be turned on during the day! Oh, it's not a chandelier at all! This female body, carrying light, like the planet Venus, fills with radiance the hidden corners of my (our, your) perception. The most difficult thing in this situation is to have time to undress. Having sex while wearing even a small piece of clothing is disgusting. Sex in clothes loses its courtesy and similarity to art, there remains the satisfaction of physiological needs, and nothing more! And I tear off the hated veils under the stunned sobs of Felicita: "Are you stunned?"
She squeezes our members in her hands, as if she had been waiting for this moment for a long time to compare them with her own eyes. She holds them as the incredible Eve would hold two incredible fruits from the tree of knowledge - with undisguised delight. "How different they are!" - her enthusiastic exclamation hangs over the world desert. I'm not that dumbfounded by such a turn, but the very idea seems interesting to me, although I hate to look at the member of my second "I". Why is it so different from mine? Size and weight? Thickness and length? The vital fullness of shades and colors of the elongated hemisphere crowning it? Smoothness and completeness of lines? Maybe his lines are rounded and harmonious, like a Botticelli drawing, while mine are sharp and dangerous, like Boccaccio jokes? The study is doomed to failure in advance, because my attention is more attracted by the smoothness and completeness of her breasts, whose endless line is saturated with the highest quality harmony and the most dangerous seductiveness. At least for my second "I". The one who is so caught up in the fever of haste that he simply does not notice that he has already reached the depths of Felicita's vagina. As if I had done it for the first time, and because of this, the viscous delight of deja vu, not fitting in me, splashes over the edge of new sensations with a playful stream of unexpected sperm. Forward, sons of the Decameron!
In fact, I'm in no hurry. I am watching. Attentive, focused, knowing exactly what to do next. And only one thought sways in me, like a bell tongue, when my cock, with the prudent caution of a commando, penetrates her ass, languishing because of my sluggishness. One thought that I just can't grasp by the snake's tail, because consciousness begins to betray me. Losing myself in a blissful sparkling fog, I still have time to doubt whether pizdeishn.net needed to torment innocent time. Everything that happens makes sense only now, at the moment when it happens, because it is dissolved in the nerve endings. Only the memories concentrated in the cells of the brain depend on time. And what we are doing now is not subject to time, because now - right now - it does not exist for us. We spit on him with the impudence of rebellious slaves, who, of course, know that they have not come up with anything particularly new, only slightly shifted the spectrum of sensations towards greater tension. But the two, burning in a volcano of passion, behind the lowered curtain still crumble to dust before time. The three who descended into the mouth of the same volcano in protective suits of natural modesty, in turn, trample time into the mud. And in this place of the chronotope, you can put an obelisk crowning a rare victory of man over a filthy monster named Time.
Obelisks. Cast with a ghostly brilliance of strangely coming true hopes, they pierce the mournfully endless veil of human history with their peaks. Gray, gray prairie with invisible horizons, pierced here and there with fragile shining needles, from under which thin, miserable, but dazzlingly shining even in the dim sun ooze and, oddly enough, feeding the same disgusting and terrible prairie, streams - the last , which I saw on the back of my eyelids, before finally falling into orgasmic insanity ...
Everything lasts no more than an eternity. No more than eighteen minutes in human habitual measurement, as the dial, which survived on the hand of one of us, testified. And wandering through the thickening twilight of the autumn alleys that are advancing on me like the incorporeal ghosts of the monsters of the Somme, along the intimately rustling foliage under my feet, I still can’t shake off the powerful charge of passion that has been shaking my limbs and loins so far. As if there was no fireball of orgasm that cut through the body and brain with the splendor of liberating pleasure. As if there was no joy from the unexpected foresight of our Felicity, who kept a jar of cream under her pillow. As if there was no funny stupor of the second one, who is now finishing his vodka at the pace of rumba, doomed to exile after five minutes. A funny stupor when he announced that he was bored of feeling superfluous at this celebration of life as a passive observer of hot, like the sun of the Apennines, sex. “Who asked you to finish everyone before,” I still managed to ask, feeling the cruel paroxysms of the vagina of my unpredictable girl, feeling her anacondina hugs on my neck. As if I wasn't suffocating like a convict fugitive. As if I didn’t fall into the sweet tartare of purification and enlightenment, along with all my senseless tricks in an effort to break the unstoppable stream ...
I can't let go of the stress of the adventure. I can't get over the fright of pleasure. Yes, I don't want to do that. Everything will pass by itself. And then I will forget how time was conquered by two men and one woman. And I want to fight him again? ..
- And why did you have to lie about some six years? I myself gave Andryushka this key yesterday. You think I'm completely stupid. Hey Botticelli! Ah, Boccaccio! By the way, for Picasso, too, there was no past or future. His paintings are only today, only, now...
And who pulls me by the tongue to pronounce blasphemous farewell?
- We'll have time to talk about art.